Casey's Village

As I stood about two feet from the yawning canyon, I looked down at the scuffed end of my cheap running shoes. My little toe was peeping out the end of one shoe. It was a laugh to even think of these as “running shoes.” The soles were so thin traction did not exist and the insides were worn down without any kind of support. I barked out a harsh comment, “Like I need running shoes anyway. Who knows when the last time I went for a walk, much less a run.” A brief memory passed quickly through my thoughts about how good It had felt when I did run as I had hit my stride and finally obtained that runner’s high. Some call it “bliss.” I shook off the memory. “Useless!” I muttered. “I’m not that person anymore.” In the distant past Richard, and I had rafted down the river and hiked its trails. Sometimes we were with a group, and other times we had gone as a couple. They were some of the happiest times of my life. All of that was over five years ago. Now Richard is dead. All of our dreams are dead. I raised my eyes to focus on my surroundings. The day reflected back my own gloom. The canyon was in a gray shroud of low overhanging clouds. The colors muted. Was it sending me an invitation to carry out my plan? I was there because I have held the Grand Canyon as sacred for most of my life. It seemed like the appropriate place to give my final offering.